


The Perfect Gift

by themasterplanner



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Knitting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 21:24:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16840696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themasterplanner/pseuds/themasterplanner
Summary: In which Oswald makes a gift for Edward.





	The Perfect Gift

**Author's Note:**

> Based on events in s03ep01.

***   
  
“It’s perfect.”   
  
Nimble, delicate fingers idly stroke the ball of yarn. Alpaca/merino blend, the tag reads. Butter-soft to the touch, and it seems as though it would be light yet warm. He knows how cold and drafty the ancient facility gets at night.   
  
Oswald picks up two of the skeins and holds them out to his henchman, who’s currently flipping through the pattern leaflets. “Which color do you think would look best? Deep Emerald or Viridian Forest?”   
  
_ (Edward loves the color green.) _   
  
Butch looks up from the leaflet and shrugs. “They look the same to me.”   
  
Oswald huffs. “They are not the same. Hello? These are clearly two different shades.”   
  
Butch takes the scolding in stride as Oswald rolls his eyes and explains, in the tone one would use when explaining to a not particularly bright toddler that _water_ is _wet_ , that Deep Emerald is indeed a _totally_ different shade of green than Viridian Forest. He tosses the leaflet on a table – they might as well be written in freakin’ hieroglyphics for all he knows. Fish Mooney and her merry band of mutant misfits were probably planning who knows what, and his boss is here, in a fancy boutique in the fancy part of Gotham, looking at fancy yarn.   
  
“I should have brought Barbara Kean instead.” Oswald turns back to the shelves to once more ponder the various brands of yarn, a rainbow of color neatly laid out in hanks, balls, and skeins.   
  
“Mr. Peng–I mean, Cobblepot? I don’t mean to intrude, but what are you making?”   
  
The proprietor of the shop is a kindly, silver-haired woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a lace shawl. The six other women in the shop, housewives attending a meeting of their knitting and book club, had frozen when they saw him walk into the shop, dropping projects and stitches, mouths agape. _“It’s the Penguin,”_ they whisper. _“What is he doing here?”_   
  
While he certainly enjoys the fear that his reputation inspires in people, today at least, he’s just another customer. Butch, standing behind him with a basket in hand, is fidgeting and looking at his watch, but business can wait just a little longer.   
  
“Please, Penguin is fine.” He smiles, genuinely, and shakes her hand – he always did have a soft spot for old ladies. “And it’s a sweater – my friend’s new place gets a bit chilly in the evenings. You know these decrepit old buildings. Money's no object, of course.”   
  
“May I suggest the DK weight in our cashmere merino blend, then?” she says, leading him to a shelf across the room. “It’s warm, without being too heavy. And we just got a new stock of superwash…”   
  
Ten minutes of agonizing (and arguing with Butch over the essentials of color theory and fiber content) later, Oswald walks out of the shop, Butch carrying ten hanks of yarn in New England Spruce, two pairs of hand-carved rosewood knitting needles, and an invitation from the shop owner to come in any time for knitting classes or personal assistance, and a few pattern leaflets.   
  
_ (Edward would surely appreciate the intricacy of the braided cables.) _   
  
“And Butch? I expect them all wound into balls within an hour.”   
  
Butch just sighs and mutters “yes, boss.” This isn’t exactly the sort of thing covered in his job description.   
  
***   
  
Edward pulls on the sweater. He takes a long appraising look at himself, smooths it over his lean waist, enjoying the feel of the soft fabric and the raised texture of the artfully worked cables under his fingers. He shows off a little, twirling around and posing arms akimbo so Oswald can see his work from all angles.   
  
“Did you get the biscuits I sent earlier? I know from experience, the food here is horrid.”   
  
“I did. So, where’d you learn to knit?”   
  
_ (Edward doesn’t tell Oswald about the “sweater curse.” He’s not one to believe in such superstitions.) _   
  
“Arkham,” Oswald says, giving his friend a minute smile and an apologetic tilt of his head. “Professor Strange instituted a new ‘art therapy’ program. Can you imagine? Letting lunatics play with pointed sticks.”   
  
Edward chuckles. “Oh, they don’t have that anymore. They cancelled it when someone got a knitting needle through the eye socket during an argument over a carton of cigarettes. But – I managed to make you this.”   
  
With the grace of a magician performing a handkerchief trick, Edward pulls a tiny crocheted penguin from the pocket of his striped uniform and presses it into Oswald’s hands.   
  
Usually so eloquent, Oswald can only stammer. “Thank you so much. I don’t know how I could possibly repay you for everything you’ve done.”   
  
_(About a month later, the power supply at Arkham would go out, leaving the security systems disabled for about an hour before the backup generators could kick in. Edward would take advantage of the darkness and ensuing chaos to slip through the delivery and supply entrance, which had mysteriously been left unlocked, where one of Oswald’s men would introduce himself as Butch_ _Gilzean and usher him into a waiting van.)_   
  
The allotted time for visits is almost up. Edward takes off the sweater and busies himself with folding it, laying it neatly inside the box.   
  
_ (Neither of them are good at goodbyes.) _   
  
“I apologize in advance, if the sweater isn’t to your liking –”   
  
Before Oswald could say anything else, Edward smiles, reaches across the table and gives Oswald’s hand a gentle squeeze.   
  
“It’s perfect.”


End file.
